


Amalgamation

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: AU, Epic Friendship, Gen, boyd and raylan deserved better than justified, friendship fic, non explicit child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.Boyd will do anything for those he loves - even kill. He loves Raylan Givens, because he's all Boyd has.  How does their early friendship and Boyd's self-awareness change both boy's futures?Does it even matter, or will there always be a Marshal and an outlaw, sitting on opposite sides of thick glass, lying?Or: Two (or three) times Boyd saves Raylan, and as many times as Raylan saves him.





	1. Fast Friends

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters or the work from which I derived this work. 
> 
> Hey there! This is a multi-chapter AU fic. Comments make me so happy it's embarrassing - please consider leaving me one if you enjoy this story!

Summers were, in Boyd's opinion, an amalgamation (and shit, he just loved that word, right there! amalgamation!) of boredom, hunger, and loneliness, especially since...

Well, since his mama wasn't gonna be enjoying the flowers he picked her no more.  He still did, sometimes, but not when Bowman or Bo could find out, or notice.  Not that there was any risk of that, this summer, since Bo had gone and violated a restraining order and got hisself caught and put in the pen for ninety-days (he had work to do inside, and it was too hot outside, Boyd knew).

 

But that left Boyd alone with Bowman for three months. Bowman had took himself off to live with a friend of his, their momma having taken a shine to him when he was little and Boyd's mama was still alive.  Nobody had taken much of a shine to Boyd, except, of course, Raylan Givens, and he was not useful for a place to sleep or eat, as Arlo Givens was a mean ol' sumbitch, and Frances didn't dare feed a stray cat without his'n say-so. 

 

And anyways, Boyd figured he was big enough to run the house, and he did, too, paid the bills like he'd been doin' since he was ten and mama first got sick, doing the shopping on Tuesdays, when the meat got marked down, even if he didn't ever buy any meat.  He wasn't a real good cook, and it was a waste to buy a food you wouldn't make properly.  He stuck to TV dinners and cereal, and ice cream, fishing money out of the jar his daddy left under the floorboards in the shed for him to use.

 

Whenever the social worker came to visit, his uncle Biff and cousin Johnny came five minutes ahead of him, and Boyd would answer all the questions right about what he was eating and doing - but with the end of school he knew that the social worker would only come once a week, if he came then, so he didn't bother much about it.

 

He got up when he wanted, slept when he'd a mind to, and read all day, every day he could.  He didn't dare drive his daddy's truck for the library, so sometimes he ran out of books early, and that meant there would be nothin' to do except...

 

Well, what was there to do in Harlan in the summer? Bake in the sun, root in his mama's garden to try and get some food offa the plants (not that he much knew what to do with things like zucchini or cucumbers) and wander through the hills, longing for fall, when school would start and he'd see people again.

 

He'd been living on his own for a week and a half when he ran into Raylan Givens out in the woods.  Raylan was every bit as pleased to see Boyd as Boyd was Raylan - they didn't hang out much, but they were cordial, and Raylan wasn't scared of him any at all.

 

In fact, Raylan didn't seem scared of much of anything at all, which was, as Boyd told him firmly, a fuckin' stupid way to be.  Raylan shrugged and offered Boyd his hoe, "Yeah, but somebody's gotta clear out that nesta' copperheads, somebody could get hurt."

 

Boyd didn't much care, because if someone was stupid enough to go into a _nest_ , they deserved everything they ever got.  But, Raylan seemed to care, and Boyd was lonely, and he liked Raylan, so...

 

They spent the day chopping up snakes together.

 

"What you doin', tomorrow?" Boyd asked as the sun started to head back behind the edge of the hill. 

 

Raylan glanced at him, eyes dark and questioning, but something passed between them in the air that neither boy could quite define, and a smile spread over both of their faces like sunrise.  "I reckon," Raylan said, in his soft, quiet way, "That we are gonna wanna go fishin', seein' as it is supposed to rain."

 

Boyd could have cried with joy at that thought, of something to do and someone to do it with, "I reckon we are. Meet you out by the fishin' hole?"

 

"Yeeeep," Raylan said, "And I'll bring some sammiches, if you can bring some soda."

 

Soda, Boyd could procure with great ease, and he nodded, "See you!"

 

He trotted off home, fed the dogs, drove into town and bought some soda and jerky, and returned his read books to the book drop.  He splurged on a newspaper, and stayed up late considering the possible ramifications of that guy who shot Reagan being found not guilty by means of insanity.  How was _that_  fair?

 

Raylan didn't think it was fair one bit when he talked about it the next day. 

 

"So, they're sayin', because he's batshit, he don't gotta pay for it?"  Raylan stared at him, his jaw hard and tight, "That ain't _right._ "

 

Boyd agreed, but he couldn't let on to that, so he leaned back, thoughtfully blinking up into the drizzle, "Well, I reckon if he's truly batshit, he won't actually know if'n he's bein' punished or not," he said, finally. 

 

"Don't matter any at all," Raylan said firmly, "Everybody else, as isn't crazy, _they_  know what he done's wrong, and they've gotta know there's consequences, and you can't go shootin' the president of the United States of America without _consequences._   If that were so, wouldn't everybody play batshit and just go 'round killin' people?"

 

"Good point," Boyd said, "But I reckon there's tests for crazy."

 

"I think it's bullshit," Raylan said, "Pass me that coke, will you?" he passed over a fat butter-and-venison sandwich, "Aunt Helen made me these, they're real good."

 

"You stay with your Aunt Helen? What 'bout your mama?"  Boyd stuffed the sandwich in his mouth, the smell of the meat all but making him faint inside.  It was _good_ , and he hadn't even realized he was so hungry 'til the sandwich was between his teeth. 

 

Raylan's mouth got tight, and he rubbed the back of his neck, "You musta not been in town much a'late."

 

"You're the only person other'n the social worker or Uncle Biff and Cousin Johnny I talked to since school ended."

 

"...that was a month gone."

 

"Yeah, and?" Boyd glowered at him.

 

"And, nothin', I guess. Just figured you'd've maybe known.  My daddy done beat mama pretty bad. She runned up to Nobles' Holler.  I don't like to be around the house much, if it's just Arlo.  I do my chores and sleep there, an' all... but..."

 

...well, shit, that was bad.  "I'm sorry," Boyd said.

 

"Hell, why're you sorry?" Raylan asked, "Ain't in no way your fault."

 

Boyd reckoned that was so, but he didn't like that Raylan's house was as empty as his.

 

"So," Raylan asked, as the sky went from gray to black, and the wind picked up, "What're we gonna do tomorrow?"  A piercing whistle - like calling a dog - came from the direction of the Givenses' house, and Raylan cursed - and Boyd knew that that was Arlo Givens, calling his boy in for somethin'. 

 

Probably because he owed Boyd's daddy money, and in order to pay that, Raylan needed to go collect it...

 

"Well," Boyd hesitated, "I... would you like to come over? It's gonna keep rainin', but I have a shit ton of green army men and we can set them up in the livin' room, re-enact the battle of the Bulge."

 

"The battle of the what, now?"

 

"You'll learn about it next year, Raylan, it's from World War two. I'll tell you 'bout it, tomorrow, too... you'll love it!"

 

"Well, okay. See you!"  And Raylan was running off through the woods towards his house, bare feet squelching in the mud.

 

Boyd stayed a few minutes longer, rain dripping down his neck as he looked at the fish he'd caught and decided he'd try his hand at cooking them, after all.

 

The third one turned out fine, the first two burned to the pan and had to be fed to the dogs. The third one was real good, though.

 

It became routine, Raylan and Boyd meeting up every day but Sundays - Raylan went to church and Boyd did _not_ , God had killed his mama and he was going to go to hell, on purpose, to spite Him - and playing or doing any of the things that came to their minds.  These were, Boyd thought, the types of friendships that got written about in novels about long summers and fun times.  He tried not to let that turn his head or anything, but he reckoned it was true, he and Raylan had something special.  

 

And that special thing was, as they both thought in their minds (not incorrectly) and never said it out loud (because they were boys and boys weren't supposed to notice or care), "Nobody gives a shit about us."

 

But they had each other, and that counted for a lot, and it was a magical damn summer, in which Boyd learned more than he'd ever bargained on... and some things he wished he hadn't.

 

Bo sometimes had a heavy hand, but Boyd could count on one hand and maybe a few fingers the times he'd bruised from it (and each time, Bo had told him in no uncertain terms what he'd done wrong - sometimes Boyd messed business shit up, was all, and Bo made it clear he wasn't _pissed_  at Boyd, he just wanted him to _learn_ , because he was a boy, and boys had to be taught how to handle business properly).  Arlo, on the other hand, seemed to have no interest in teaching his son the business at all, and, in fact, bruised him more often than not.  When he wasn't making him bleed, that was. They'd gone swimming on the fourth of July, buck naked, and Boyd had seen all the bruises and scars Raylan carried, as easily as a spotted dog carried their fur.  And, some were old and some were new, and when, early August, they'd gone swimming again, he'd had a whole new collection.  Boyd didn't say anything, because it wouldn't help, and it would embarrass Raylan - Raylan embarrassed fairly easy, Boyd had noticed, now that he was taking the time to know these things, learn his expressions and his eyes.

 

He had very expressive eyes, Boyd thought.

 

Those bruises didn't prepare him for the end of August, when Raylan didn't come, even though they'd planned on building a swing and obstacle course out of old tires behind the barn.


	2. Can't do nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd tries to help with a very adult problem. Somebody's gotta, because Raylan'll die if he doesn't get this right.

It wasn't like Raylan.  Boyd worried, and decided maybe he should start walking to the Givens... he was just getting a second bowl of cereal, in case they decided to go hiking again instead when the dogs all lit up, barking and snarling.  
  
Boyd went to the door, looking around, and saw Raylan come staggering out of the woods and fall on his face a few hundred yards away.   
  
Boyd cursed, running as fast as he could across the bit of open space around the house.  
  
Raylan was lying face down, skinny arms under himself, and Boyd turned him over- and Raylan screamed as Boyd pulled his hand back, blood sticky on his fingers, terror sticky in his chest, "Raylan," Boyd gasped, "Raylan what happened?" His friend's eyes were open wide, glassy and bloodshot in his pale, sick-gray face. He had bruises all along the left side of his face and there were finger marks around his throat.  
  
"Arlo," Raylan's voice didn't sound like Raylan at all.  It croaked and creaked, air wheezing out like a dead accordion, "He figured out I... he was cheatin' that pore woman outta... had to help, Boyd."  
  
"Fuck, Raylan," Boyd said, pulling his friend upright, wrapping his arm around his neck, his arm under Raylan's shoulders, "Fuck. Cain't you just... let people worry about their own selves, and worry 'bout you?  You don't owe them nothing!"  
  
And he owed Boyd something - he owed him to stay alive, to stay with him until they were grown and could get out.  Together.  
  
Raylan's head rolled like a newborn babies', and Boyd cursed as he struggled to keep him upright and moving.  
  
It didn't work, and Boyd wound up getting a blanket out of the house and dragging him across the lawn, and picking him up in his arms to get into the house, and laid him on the couch.  
  
He didn't know what to do, then, looking at him- if he called an ambulance, they would put Arlo in jail, and even as shitty as Arlo was, they still needed him, because even as little as he earned he still did get some money, and Mrs. Givens...  
  
Noble's Holler.  
  
He could take him up there, maybe the blacks would protect Raylan, too. He was still just a little boy, hadn't gone through the change yet, voice still soft as his cheeks and high (Boyd couldn't fucking wait to be a man, himself).

But how was he supposed to pay his keep? Boyd chewed on his lip, and knew that Limehouse kept his daddy's real bank, not the floorboard household account...  
  
Bo would have his hide if Boyd used the business money for something so stupid, but how else was he supposed to...  
  
Raylan whimpered, coming back around, just like in the movies, and Boyd ran to get him something to drink.  He got up on the counter, pulling down a jar of moonshine and opening it up, wincing at the smell, but hey, it worked for Daddy when he crushed his food, it oughta work on Raylan's pain.  
  
Daddy'd drunk a couple glasses, but he was bigger'n Raylan, so... he poured him a generous cup, taking a sip himself.  
  
...god that was awful.  
  
He dumped in a bit of cough syrup,  the good stuff, with codeine in it, and some sugar, figuring that oughta help the taste out, some...  
  
Raylan was trying to get up, but nothing was working right, and Boyd told him he was a fucking idiot and to just drink this shit and lay down on your front and get some fucking sleep.  
  
Boyd couldn't stand to see his friend cry.  It hurt him, and he was helpless in it, only a boy himself, trying to comfort an adult wound.

Boyd got all the stuff out of the medicine cabinet and peeled off Raylan's shirt after he fell asleep, washing the blood off of him carefully.  Was he okay? God, those bruises looked bad, and was he breathing okay?  Boyd rubbed his hands together, terrified to do the wrong thing... he'd be fine.  
  
Raylan would be just fine.  
  
He got a blanket and covered him up when he started shivering, and Boyd sat on the floor by his head to read.  
  
Raylan slept most of the day, waking up at dusk with a raging headache and queasy stomach.  Boyd helped him to the bathroom, and made him some soup, arguing with him until he drank it.

Boyd didn't know what to do, though, because Raylan's skin was flushed and sweaty, but he was shivering still like a fleabit bound. He fell back asleep, but Boyd couldn't wake him back up.   
  
He decided he'd best call Dr. Young - Bo had used him often enough, and Boyd could pay him in weed.  He wouldn't report nothin'.  
  
Decision made, he went to make that phone call.

Dr. Young took very little convincing to come out- but he took one look at Raylan's flushed face on Boyd's couch and he shook his head, "No way in hell I'm gettin' involved in that," he said, turning to go back out to his car.  
  
Boyd ran out after him, "You can't leave! you gotta help him. I don't know what to do!"  
  
"Son, I am not touchin' Arlo Givens' boy with a ten-foot-pole.  That man's a mean cuss, and if I do, I will have to do something about it."  
  
"Hell, you ain't done nothin' for years," Boyd scoffed, "An' everybody knows.  Nobody does nothin'. How's this different?"  
  
"It just is.  Call someone else."  
  
"You get back in there," Boyd said, low, and mean, his eyes snapping, "And you take care of him proper, or I will tell the social worker, when he come out, that you take yore payments in weed and prescriptions.  You got that? And don't nobody own the social worker, yet, so..."  
  
"...you are just like your father, boy," the doctor said, his face having gone first pale, then flushed in anger, "Fuck you." He got back out of his car with his bag, stomping up onto Boyd's porch and walking back inside.  
  
Boyd felt his triumph turn cold and frightening in his throat.  Knowledge was power, Daddy said, and now Boyd had some power.  He hoped he'd played that about right.  
  
  



	3. Be a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Boyd's going to kill a man, he has to be one, himself.

The doctor took good care of Raylan, and Boyd spat after him after he'd dropped the drugs in his hand in payment.  Tears was cheap, Boyd ought to know.  
  
He fell asleep on the floor by Raylan, a hand up on his friend's chest, to be sure he kept breathing.  
  
The dogs started barking at two AM, and Boyd woke, getting to his feet and peering out the window into the black. Headlights jostled up the drive, and he picked up his daddy's shotgun from where it rested alongside the door.  He stepped out onto the porch, hitting the driveway lights.  
  
Bo had installed lights on the driveway, but none on the porch.  Boyd had asked why, when he was small, and his daddy had let him stay up late, and then stood him in the driveway with the lights on.  Boyd had blinked at the brightness, and Bo pointed, "Who's on the porch, son?" And Boyd couldn't tell, because the light was in his eyes, and the porch was dark.  
  
He blessed his father's cunning as Arlo Givens reeled out of his truck, his face tight and angry.  
  
"Why don't you jus' stop right there, Mr. Givens," Boyd said. "Nothin' for you, here."

 

"No? My boy's here, you little shit, an' I aim to take his ass home. Raylan!  Raylan, you get yore ass out here!"  
  
"He's asleep," Boyd said, and pumped the shotgun, "Now git!"  
  
"I will not be told what to do by a boy as don't even know what to do with his goddamn dick!"  
  
"I don't needta know what to do with my dick to blow a hole in yore head, Mr. Givens," Boyd snapped, the loneliness crawling up onto his tongue from his belly and turning to anger when it mixed with Raylan's friendship.  "G'wan."  
  
"Boyd." Raylan had come out onto the porch, quietly, and Boyd glanced at him, seeing the sweat still on him, the way he couldn't get himself up straight and he was walking like Boyd's pap had, right before a big ol' storm, "Thanks buddy, but I gotta go."

  
"Like hell you do," Boyd said, returning his gaze back down the barrel of his shotgun- hell, what did Mr. Givens have in his hand, there?  
  
Shit.  
  
That was Raylan's baseball bat.  
  
"He's gonna kill you, tonight," Boyd said with that awful feeling of certainty he was gifted with, like knowing when the storm was gonna break, or there'd be a fire alarm test at school, or his mama wasn't gonna wake up in the morning. "You go with him, Raylan, he gonna kill you."  
  
"You pussy, goin' to Dr. young, you know what that bastard said to me? Said I needed to treat you better.  I ain't never done you wrong, Raylan, get yore ass down offa that porch an' take your whippin' like a man!"  
  
Raylan swallowed hard, and Boyd reached out with his foot to edge him back - he wasn't strong enough, yet, to aim a shotgun with one hand.  
  
"You can't leave me here, Raylan," Boyd said,  lower than Arlo would catch, "I donno what I'd do without you."

Arlo spat in the dirt, "You get down here, boy! We are going."  
  
Boyd shot just in front of his feet, and pumped it again, "I said, get offa my property!"  
  
Arlo's face twisted, and he spun the bat in his hand, stomping towards the porch, murder in his eyes.  
  
Boyd pulled the trigger again, and Raylan cried out, running forward to where Arlo was sprawled headlong on the gravel, blood trickling black in the shadows.  
  
Boyd threw up.

 

He went down the stairs after Raylan, and Raylan looked up at him, his face all streaked with tears, "He ain't breathing, what d'we do?!"  
  
Boyd fell on his knees next to Raylan, and the boys clung onto each other, both sobbing and terrified.  
  
He'd gone and killed somebody, and, suddenly, for the first time that summer, he longed for his daddy to be home to take care of things.  But Boyd had killed a man, he had to be a man, himself.  
  
"Drive the truck home, Raylan," Boyd said, "I'll take care of the rest."  
  
"...you gotta call the cops, Boyd, he was threatenin' us!"  
  
"They ain't gonna believe us!"  
  
"Boyd, they will!" Raylan said desperately, "You try to hide him, they will put you in jail for forever, but if you tell 'em the truth - and Dr. Young'll back you up, and so'll I- it'll be okay, I promise."  
  
"I don't wanna go to prison," Boyd choked, and Raylan's arms trembled as he pulled him into a tight, hard hug.  
  
"If you go, I'll come too," he promised, "Okay?"

"The cops are all crooked, Raylan!"  
  
"You think I don't know that?" Raylan snapped, "Call the state troopers at their barracks."  
  
...that was a thought, it really was.  Locals weren't worth shit, but staties were decent enough assholes.  Bo always said they were the worst pain in his ass.  
  
He trembled as he got up and went into the house, looking up the number in the phonebook, once he found it, holding up the short leg on Bowman's football table in the basement. He scrubbed his eyes with his hands, and when the cop picked up, he blurted, "I done killed a man in self-defense. Please come out here."  
  
"...son, calm down." The cop sounded tired, but his voice was pleasant, "Where you at? What's y'name?"  
  
Boyd started to cry again, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved!


	4. Let the Lonely Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd and Raylan talk to the Troopers, escape a care home, and Boyd rediscovers loneliness amongst people.

State troopers and an ambulance showed up before the sun came up.  Boyd had come back out of the house and he and Raylan sat huddled side by side on the porch, under a blanket, a second blanket covering Arlo.  
  
Boyd had laid the shotgun carefully aside, along with the spent casings.  He'd hidden everything in the house out in the old well, in a bucket sealed in plastic.  
  
The lead trooper walked up to them, looking down at them, and reaching out to tilt Raylan's chin up, "The hell happened to you?" Like his face was more important than Arlo being dead.  
  
Maybe it was.

"And where..." the man looked around, his other hand on his gun, "Where's there an adult I can talk to?"  
  
"That'd be me," Boyd said, "I suppose? I mean, I'm the one as shot him. Raylan was, Raylan was standin' way over there, when I done it."  
  
The trooper looked down at him, eyes narrow and considering, "What did you shoot him for, son?"  


Boyd couldn’t find his tongue to answer.

  
"He was comin' to make me go home," Raylan said, "And Boyd said he thought he was gonna kill me, this time.  Had... has... if you roll him, he's got a... he's got my ball-bat."  
  
"This ti... okay. And did he do..." he tilted Raylan's chin again, looking at the fingerprints on his throats again, "Dammit."  
  
He shook his head, taking off his hat and running his hands through his hair, looking back over his shoulder, "Y'all come with me.  No need you stay here, and I reckon you should be in a hospital, and you," he nodded at Boyd, "Need a defendant and advocate... and I need to find your parents..."  
  
"My mama's up in Noble's holler," Raylan said.  
  
"Mine's dead, and my daddy's in jail 'mother eighteen days."  
  
"Fuck."

Boyd fed the dogs and called Cousin Johnny to come check on the house, since Uncle Biff was doubtless busy at Audrey's, and went with the trooper.  The paramedics were fussing all over Raylan, looking mad, and Boyd asked if he'd been done wrong by that doctor.  
  
If so, Boyd had some extra talking to do with the troopers.  
  
The trooper put a hand on his arm, "Wait. There was a doctor here? And he saw him?" Pointing with his chin at Raylan.  
  
...shit.  Boyd scuffed his toe in the dust by the side of the driveway, pissed he'd managed to put his foot in his mouth so damn fast as all that.  
  
Raylan tried to fight with the medics- they wanted him to go to the hospital, and Raylan snarled, "We ain't got money for that shit!"  
  
The trooper looked at the sky, hard, and Boyd just couldn't understand why he was making that face, like he was so pissed he wanted to hit something, but also so sad.  
  
They won out in the end, and Boyd wound up riding to the trooper barracks alone, after he'd explained to the nice statie why he'd called him, not the locals.  It was common knowledge... wasn't it?  
  
The advocate was nice enough.  They didn't ask too much about Arlo. Apparently Raylan's story held some merit, given he'd broken some ribs and his trachea was bruised.  It also helped that they'd gotten a hold of Raylan's Aunt Helen, and she'd told them what kind of man Arlo was, in her estimation.  
  
The trooper had asked questions, just a few, and Boyd answered them to the best of his ability, steering far clear from anything that might seem like it had to do with Business.  
  
The prosecutor wanted it to go to trial, apparently, and he had a hard face and said Boyd's last name like you'd say asshole or moron. He said that Boyd had likely had orders- he kept asking about when the last time was Boyd had talked to Bo, like he didn't damned well know Boyd had no way to get up to the pen!!!  
  
Boyd hung onto his seat as the judge looked at him. "Son," he said, "You know murder is a very serious charge. And what you have done is very serious."  
  
"I do know," Boyd said, his voice small, "And, your honor, I did it in my own right mind."  
  
The judge looked at him, "...what?"  
  
"I ain't crazy. I won't try'n say that. Arlo sure was, but I am not.  I did it because he was gonna kill Raylan with that bat, because Raylan wouldn't play along with his mean tricks. It's why he beat him so bad- Raylan's an idiot who ain't scared of nothing, even when he should be.  Well, I am not that stupid. I... I was scared of him, and I shot him cuz I was scared he'd kill Raylan. I didn't do it because my daddy said to.  I wouldn't, and my daddy wouldn't ever ask me to do that.  My daddy loves me."  He knew that far down in his bones, but not like he'd known about Arlo. It didn’t have that same certainty in his soul. "You can't blame daddy, or Raylan, or anybody but me. I did it."  
  
The judge looked at him, "Crowder," he said, leaning forward, scrubbing a hand through his stubble, "I believe you."

The prosecutor glared at him, "I still want..."  
  
"Herman, leave that poor kid alone," the judge said, "He ain't the criminal, there.  Son." Boyd looked up at him again, "Don't you ever let me catch you in my court room again, hear?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"Git him outta here," the judge waved his hand at the advocate and statie, "And for cryin' out loud, get those two in a care home.  Ain't fuckin' nobody givin' a shit about them? well, I will."  
  
...a care home? Awww no, no, no!

The care home lasted a hot minute, and Boyd and Raylan made a run for home.  It was a hard time, taking them the better part of three days, and a couple of scares with creepy ol' men truck drivers, although Raylan scared the one off with a shiv pretty good while Boyd was sleeping.  Boyd was sorry to have missed  _that_  particular bit of adventure.

 

Raylan turned into his drive, waving Boyd on as he went through the woods, heading back to home.

 

Bo's truck was in the drive, and Boyd's heart skipped a few beats as he pelted out of the woods, hollering, "Daddy!"

 

Bo opened the back door, and Boyd hugged his father with all his might, burying his face in his chest like he was seven, not thirteen.  "Daddy, I  _missed_  you."

 

"Missed you too, Boyd.  Come have a sit down, and tell me all about it."

 

Boyd did, editing out how lonely he'd been and the threats he'd used on Dr. Young.  Daddy likely already knew, anyhow, he generally did know things like that.  Bo listened, asking questions here and there - who was the state trooper, which Justice had he had, had Boyd said anything untoward in custody, that shit. 

 

Funnily enough, the social worker never bothered to come by again. 

 

Neither did Raylan, but Boyd understood that perfectly well - Mrs. Givens wouldn't want her son to be with his daddy's killer, he figured, and Bo Crowder's son, on top of that.  And Raylan would obey his mama, as a good son should.

 

Just... at night, when Bowman's breathing would even out, and Bo's business meetings would end, his light flickering out and his snoring beginning, Boyd would bury his face in his pillow and cry.

 

How was it possible to feel so lonely with his house so full?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed - or hated it - please leave a comment! They encourage me to keep writing!


	5. High Price of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd returns to school, only to learn the high cost of being a man in Harlan.

School started, and Boyd delighted in the first day - for the first period.  The teachers wouldn't look at him, and the other children...

 

He cornered Dewey Crowe, a slow child who was prone to telling the truth without half meaning to. "Why's everybody walkin' on the other side of the hall?" he asked, "Like I got something catchin'."

 

"Well, Boyd Crowder," Dewey blinked his perpetually swollen, pink-eyed eyes at him, "You  _did_  kill a man, this summer."

 

 _There's no going back from a killing_ , said one of Raylan's favorite books, and Boyd felt the blow hit his belly, raising his eyes as Raylan went past.  Their eyes met over Dewey's shoulder, and Raylan looked so  _sorry_  that Boyd...

 

Pushed Dewey away, "Well," he snapped, "I guess I  _did_."

 

Boyd retreated into books, reading almost the whole school library, and borrowing through the exchange program.  He wrote essays he got F's on, because the teachers said he cheated, and he gave speeches that got him blank stares from the rest of the class. 

 

He didn't care.  He had set his sights on leaving that killing far behind him, and he'd do whatever it took to...

 

Until he was fifteen, and his father sat him down with a glass of moonshine and told him he would not be going back to school in the fall, when he was sixteen, to devote his time full time to the Business.  Bowman was going to keep in school, of course, he was doing so  _well_  in football, he might even get a scholarship, but Boyd, he needed help keeping things running, with Biff dead.

 

Boyd saw his future crumble and die, the rope he'd flung up on the edge of the well dropping down on top of him.  

 

He cried into his pillow that night for the first time since he'd realized Raylan and he wouldn't ever have plans the next day. 

 

That summer, he obeyed his father.  He met the dealers, the producers, made deliveries and picked up payments.  
  
He was just explaining, patiently, for the fiftieth time, that they'd extended all the credit they could, Jericho, when movement in the background of the little shop made him straighten, Johnny behind him, ready to his call...  
  
Raylan's eyes were ablaze in the shadows, and Boyd's heart stopped as Raylan came forward, hands down in fists at his sides.  Jericho stammered something about one more week, Mr. Crowder, please, Boyd, and Boyd dismissed him with a wave of his fingers.  He disappeared into his back room, a colorless little man, worn out by meth and Harlan and made thin by Crowders.  
  
Raylan's eyes still held his, and Boyd raised his chin in defiance- Raylan's mouth curved up, like he'd won something in that movement, "Tell me, Boyd, why're you determined," he asked, "To be proud of doin' what you think's wrong?"

"A man does what he has to," Boyd told him, firmly, "For his family.  Wouldn't expect you to understand." Raylan hadn't killed a man.  Raylan still had this fall to look forward to, and if anybody was gonna go to college and leave it was Frances Given's boy.  
  
Raylan shook his head, angrily, coming in closer, "I... Boyd. Boyd..."  
  
Johnny shifted menacingly as Raylan moved into Boyd's orbit- Boyd jerked his thumb at his cousin, heard him huff a sigh and go, doubtless to report that Boyd had let old man Jericho off -again.  
  
Daddy didn't belt him much since he'd become a man, and still only about Business, but Boyd had no doubts there'd be welts on his shoulders by midnight for being too damn soft and inconsistent.  
  
He didn't care. He didn't feel shit like that anymore.  
  
"Boyd." Raylan kept calling him, like they were playing in pitch-dark woods and couldn't find him, and Boyd tilted his head.  
  
"Why are you callin' me? I'm standing' right here, Raylan. Finish your sentence and get gone home to your momma!"

Raylan licked his lips, looking past Boyd, out at nothing, and smiled a little, pain coming into his eyes, "I... am going fishing, tomorrow.  Wanna come?"  
  
Boyd's gut knotted up like last years' Christmas lights, "I... Raylan, your momma..."  
  
"She was wrong.  I been wrong.  I'm sorry, Boyd."  
  
"Um.  I do know you heard every bit of that just now, Raylan.  I just proved..."  
  
Raylan kept looking at him with those goddamn eyes of his.  
  
Boyd didn't like being backed in this corner, having to say Mrs. Givens and the whole town was right about him, that he was a criminal and dangerous and a killer. "I just said I would burn his house down with his dog inside!"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"...You wanna work for us, is that it?"  Raylan, one of the Crowder crew? No, not with those eyes and that mouth and the beliefs he argued so hard for, that summer.  
  
Not when he'd sooner have let his daddy kill him than step back from what he knew to be right.  
  
Boyd wished he had that strength.

"I do not," Raylan said, but didn't seem angry at the question, "But I do wanna hang out with my buddy."  
  
"We ain't... aw, hell, Raylan, don't do this to me."  Boyd couldn't face that thought, of sitting on a bank beside Raylan with the knowledge of two shipments, three families late on payments, and a misbehaving girl.  
  
"Not doing anything to you."  
  
"You... I will see you tomorrow." Bo would let him have an afternoon off, surely.  
  
He did, too, gave him a twenty to take himself to Audrey's, if he wanted.  Boyd took the money and blew it on food and a fishing pole.  His was long gone, god knew where.  
  
Boyd met Raylan, and Raylan smiled at him, "Brought you a sandwich." He held it out, the wax paper crumpled and seamed around it.  
  
Boyd realized he wasn't hungry, but he took the sandwich anyhow, chewing through the soft bread smeared with butter and tough meat.  Opening his mouth to eat made it easier to talk, and Boyd found himself telling Raylan, in painful bursts, about his plan for getting out, and how Bo had cut that off.  
  
Raylan's face darkened, and he finally said, in his quiet way Boyd remembered so well, "I reckon you killed the wrong daddy, Boyd."  
  
"The hell you mean?" Boyd asked, furiously, springing to his feet to loom over the younger boy- who was about his size, already getting broad where Boyd stayed perpetually narrow. "You take that back!"  
  
"I'll not," Raylan tilted his head to look at him from beneath his bangs, "My daddy beat me, but he never could touch me in any way that mattered – couldn’t get at what _I thought_.  He didn’t care to, and he'd of had the decency to kill me.  Yours, he's beat in your very soul, Boyd.  You aren't careful, he'll beat it out of you," he pointed two fingers at Boyd's chest, "An' what's worse, you'll be alive."  
  
...where the hell did he get ideas like that?  How? It sounded like something from a book, ringing true down in his soul like Voltaire or Thoreau or Nietzsche.

"An', by the way," Raylan said, "I do not get why you liked Joyce’s _Ulysses_ so well.  It's a travesty of a book."  
  
Boyd gaped at him, and Raylan smiled his small, wry smile, "Our library works on the writ-card system, Boyd, I been checkin' out every book you have. So, yeah," he leaned back on the bank, stretching his long arms out, "If you were thinkin' that that didn't sound right comin' outta an uneducated Harlan boy..."

Boyd laughed, falling back on his ass, reaching for the jar of 'shine he'd brought instead of the sodas of yore, "Raylan Givens, you are a conundrum."  
  
"Naw," Raylan said, shaking his head so his hair fell over his eyes, smiling, "Just like to read."  
  
"Are you gonna get out?" Boyd asked wistfully, looking up at the ridges of the mountains.  
  
"We both will," Raylan said, "When we're grown."  
  
"If I wait until I'm grown," Boyd said, "I'm afraid I won't ever get out."  
  
"Don't get caught," Raylan said seriously, "And don't get to liking it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! Comments keep me sane.


	6. Where do you think we are?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd's desperate. Desperation breeds... well. Change.

Boyd thought about what Raylan had said.  It tumbled in his mind, end over end, ungainly and inevitable.  
  
He went to Bo, stood to the side and waited for the collection crew to leave, and for Bo to look at him.  "I been doin' this for three months, now," Boyd said, hands tucked behind him, curling around the butt of his revolver. "I-I don't wanna, anymore."  
  
Bo's expression turned from inquisitive to angry to blank. "Then you can get out," he said, coldly, "But you'll not stay here and free-load offa my good will and kindness."  
  
...free load. Boyd laughed, shaking his head, letting go his pistol and hugging his father bitterly, "I wouldn't dream of it," he said, eyes on fire, lit with unholy amusement and anger, "I'm taking my shit, and you'll pay me for the last three months, and I'll get out. And if anybody asks, I'll say you thrown me out... for why, daddy? Oh. Oh, for not wanting to be a criminal."  
  
"You done killed a man!"  
  
"Your man," Boyd let his bitterness from that night ooze out, "You could have stopped that crazy old bastard, or let someone else, instead, I was here alone.  I wasn't old enough for that, daddy."  
  
"Get out, 'fore I lose my temper, boy."  
  
Boyd snorted, turning on his heel and going upstairs to collect his shit, tears stinging hot in the corners of his eyes.

Boyd had three hundred dollars, his clothes and sleeping bag, his truck, his shotgun, handgun, and rifle, some ammo, a bucket of black powder, his traps, and a shit ton of books.  
  
He was fucked,  but... he pulled up onto the seasonal road overlooking the holler, laughing helplessly to himself - he didn't care! He didn'tcare.  
  
Fuck, he was fucked, tears rolling down his cheeks as he beat his palms on the steering wheel.  What the hell was he supposed to do?  
  
...it was midnight, and he guessed that made the answer easier, as he locked up the truck and curled himself up small.  It was a warm, muggy night, and he didn't need a blanket.  
  
Oh, but he was tired...

He slept through the night, and woke up feeling stiff and hungry, but better than he had since school.  
  
First, he needed to get a diploma, and... shit, he wanted to go to college so bad, but there wasn't any sort of way he could get that kind of money!  
  
The coal mine whistle blew, and Boyd sucked in a breath.  He was too young, but when had that stopped the mine?  They could work him harder and pay him less.  
  
But how would he manage school, with that?  
  
He would.  He would manage. He'd maybe test out, he knew he could pass... he drove on down to the Givens' place and knocked on the door.  
  
Mrs. Givens opened it, and Boyd noted she was a real pretty woman.  She looked like Raylan. "Ma'am," he said, awkwardly, "I... I'm real sorry about yore husband."  
  
Her eyebrows went up, "You come here, two years after, to say you're sorry, Boyd Crowder?"  
  
"I came to talk to Raylan, but I ain't seen you since and I reckoned it was only appropriate."  
  
"You stay away from Raylan," she said, stepping onto the porch, the screen swinging shut behind her, "Or I will serve you like you done his daddy. You hear, Crowder?"

Boyd swallowed, looking her in the eye- she was shorter than him, now. "Well," he said, "Just go ahead and... will you tell him something, for me?"  
  
"Write him a note. I'll see he gets it."  
  
"Do you got any paper?"

Boyd scrawled a note against his thigh- a quote from William Burroughs that stuck in his mind.  
  
"Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape."  
  
 He handed it to Frances with a thin smile, "Thank you."  
  
She took it, read it, and frowned, "Boyd," she said, her voice a little softer, "I'm sorry it was you who had to do it."  
  
She went back in the house, and Boyd blinked back heat from his eyes again as he went back to his truck, walking past Arlo's gravestone.  
  
Boyd rented a room off of a second cousin, and kept to himself.  It was familiar, the solitude, and after all day in the mine, it was honestly a relief.  
  
And, there was the knowledge that Raylan was reading with him.  He scribbled notes on the margins in pencil, sometimes, his thoughts on texts and questions, and imagined Raylan's answers.  
  
He passed the GED.  He earned enough to pay for room and board at U.K., for one semester, and spent hours agonizing over the catalog. He could work while he studied, who needed sleep?  He longed to study philosophy, but at the same time, where was the money in that?  
  
Engineering held a much wider appeal, and he wrote his application...  
  
And did not send it in, as Raylan Givens stepped into the mines behind him, and Boyd once again saw a future fall to pieces.

He would stay, he decided, until Raylan left.  
  
Down there, in the dark, he realized the love he'd thought he held for his friend could only get deeper, the further they dug.  Digging coal with somebody was, Boyd reflected, an impossible window into the soul, and a connection similar, he expected, to the one made in trenches.  
  
Raylan's company made the dark less stifling.  It didn't lighten it- nothing would do that- but Boyd could breathe a little easier. It was as if they'd never been apart. "I'm sorry about your mama," Boyd said at lunch break, Raylan wordlessly passing him half of a sandwich. Boyd passed him a Coke in return.  
  
"She's in a better place," Raylan replied, dully, and Boyd reached out to grip him by the shoulder.  
  
"She surely is."  
  
"You still going to hell on purpose?"  
  
"Son, where do you think we are?" And there it was, that small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you read and enjoyed!


	7. Buying the Way out of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prices are paid, some years apart.

The mine caved in on them, and Raylan fell apart.  Boyd didn’t watch, but he could hear it on the other side of his truck, could hear him sobbing and puking.

Boyd gave Helen his money without a pang.  Raylan needed to get out- he was orphaned, and so damn young, and so, so smart... (and parts of that were Boyd's fault.)  
  
Raylan came to him and begged him to come, too. Come out of this goddamn hellhole, Boyd! Walk out with me!  
  
Boyd didn't trust his voice so he shook his head, drank some more moonshine and held out the cup to his friend, a parting glass.  
  
Raylan took it and Boyd pretended he didn't see him cry.  
  
That boat had only been built for one, Boyd thought as he watched his straight back and sunburnt neck walk away, and Boyd wouldn't risk it.  
  
Boyd had always been stronger, he told himself as he went back down into the hole, stared into the abyss and refused to shake, locked his knees to keep from praying.  He was going to hell, on purpose.  
  
Took a lot of the fear out of it, actually, to be doing it a'purpose.  
  
It took him another year, and by that time, he decided it best to skip college altogether- they were always looking for strong young men who could blow shit up in the Army, and there was a not-quite-war on.  
  
He didn't look back, and he never asked Helen where Raylan had gone. If he went after him, he'd drag him back down to where Boyd was taking himself.  He couldn't do that- and his pride couldn't take it, either.

Army tossed him out, in time, as he got too old and they wanted younger blood for this younger, nastier war they were brewing.  Boyd went back to Harlan, now well past too old for college, and understanding, now, why even if he'd tried, he'd never make it out.  
  
It just wasn't in his cards.  
  
Bo tried to recruit him. Boyd shot a warning in the side of his truck.  
  
Bowman came to see him, see if he could succeed where his daddy'd failed. Boyd whipped his ass and threatened to take his wife if Bowman kept it up. Ava heard him say it, too, raising her head to look at him- and he saw Raylan looking back at him.  
  
None of them came back.  
  
He buried himself in work- welding and odd jobs- and the land.  He undertook philosophy and libertarianism had a great deal of appeal...  
  
And he never could learn when to let an ideal stay in the land of ideas, not practice, but here he was, on his hands and knees in the jail yard, getting his ribs kicked in for not paying off the biggest protection racket of all: federal taxes.  
  
It made him laugh, and that laughter terrified his opponents as he crawled to his feet, spitting blood into their faces with his rage.

He wound up in the infirmary, and the gentle old orderly patching him up said, quietly, "You best pick a crew, son, or you'll wind up dead." The or Worse was implied but not stated, and Boyd laughed again, hearing the insanity of that shit in his throat.  
  
The second time he would up in the infirmary, he couldn't laugh. He could only curl into himself and blink at the wall, stupid and slow and hating himself for that.  
  
A guard came for him. "Get your things.  You're leaving."  
  
...what.  
  
He was ushered from the infirmary to his cell, his things fitting in the sack they gave him, into a prison private (two guards, no windows, a camera) room to change, and he stepped out into spring sunshine, blinking.  
  
What the hell?

"Hell, son," a voice drawled and Boyd looked at the speaker- long, lean lawman wearing a cowboy hat down over his face, but then he tilted his head and those goddamn eyes...  
  
"What..."  
  
"Grab your shit," he'd dropped it, "And come on with me.  We ain't  having this conversation in a prison parking lot."  
  
Boyd hadn't been expecting a conversation with Raylan Givens at all, but he saw the sense in what he was saying.  
  
"See you at work, Art," Raylan addressed a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a screwed-up mouth, "Try to keep them pointing down range while I'm gone."  
  
"See you, Raylan," the man said, getting in his car without a word to Boyd, which was just fine, but... what?  
  
"Buddy of mine drove down with me," Raylan's smile lit up the car, "He knows your judge, got him to see things from our point of view."  
  
"...please tell me," Boyd begged like he hadn't for a single thing in his life, except his mother's life, from God, "That you did not just get me out of prison."

"I did," Raylan said calmly, and Boyd's hands fisted at his sides, rage burning up from his ribs to the back of his neck, making his scalp prickle and face hot, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, Buddy," Raylan's eyes flickered to him, took in the warning signs of a primed explosive, "I can take you back, but you don't really belong in there, and you don't seem to be doing so well, if you don't mind a little observation..."  
  
"What have you done, you were supposed to leave that shit behind you!"  
  
"...the hell you talking about?"  
  
"Getting a judge to see it 'your way'? Fuck, Raylan..." the rage was drowned in sorrow, "I might not agree with the federal government, but I don't hold with...."  


Understanding dawned on Raylan's face, followed by a familiar amusement coupled with annoyance, "I ain't a dirty cop. Not even a cop at all. I'm a Marshal, and all Art was doin' on your behalf was askin' a favor, on my behalf, after I already paid your debt."  
  
...paid his debt. He'd...  
  
"Raylan," Boyd said firmly, "You cannot..."  
  
"Did you really think Helen wouldn't tell me?" Raylan pulled his car off to the side of the road, facing Boyd directly, hand on the gear shaft between them, "What you'd done?"

"How's Helen knowin' about my taxes either here or there?" Boyd asked, panic clawing up in his guts.  Raylan couldn't know.  
  
Those eyes...  
  
"Boyd," Raylan said, his voice even and quiet, like when they were boys and Boyd was getting himself good and worked up, "Don't.  I know you bought me out of there, it was your money that got me free.  For god's sakes, please..."  
  
"It wasn't nearly as much as what I owed the government," he protested. Boyd could barely get the words out through the shame and pain of it, he hadn't wanted this. Not any bit of it. He'd have paid his debt, however unhappily, at the cost of everything else in him, he wouldn't pay off the racket. Ideals, he understood now, often came with a hefty price tag, and he hadn't seen that one coming.  
  
Raylan laughed almost inaudibly, anger flickering in his eyes and the corner of his mouth, "But that bullet you bought me with..."  
  
"I don't want to own you!" Boyd exploded, twenty years late, "Or your gratitude, you owin' me, or help, or nothing from you, Raylan!"  


He folded into himself, as tight as he could get, "Raylan," he whispered, "You- you shouldn't have."  
  
"...I'm not real sure why you're so upset," Raylan said slowly, looking at his friend, "But then, I reckon, from what the warden was sayin', you're probably still in a fair 'mount of shock... we can talk later, I reckon. Let's get you some food, hunh?" He reached down by Boyd's feet, pulling forward a cooler, "I brought sandwiches..."  
  
Boyd looked at him, baffled at how Raylan always... Raylan held out the wrapped sandwich to him and he took it after a moment, answering Raylan's smile with one of his own.  Raylan took one too, pulling out two sodas, "Got any objections to me getting back on the road?"  
  
"No. Where you going?"  
  
"We," Raylan said, "Are headed down to Glynco.  I'll take you anywhere in the continental US, after, but I hate spendin' money on hotels when I don't gotta."  
  
"Glynco?"  
  
"Marshal training center," Raylan said around a mouthful of sandwich, driving with his knees and elbows. Boyd was impressed but unconcerned.  He took a bite of his sandwich- Raylan still put butter on any sort of meat, and that took him back... "they have me teaching a bunch of damn kids which way to point their boom sticks."

"Lord, you poor man," Boyd could only imagine what a pain in the neck that particular job had to be. "Marshal?”

“Yep. I am a U.S. Deputy Marshal."  
  
"You always were too fond of them Westerns."  
  
"Your fault, for reading _The Virginian_ and _Shane_ back to back in fifth grade."  
  
"Oh, so it's my fault?" Boyd grinned, "Is the hat somehow my fault, too?"  
  
"That," Raylan grinned, "Is all me.  _What_  have you been reading, Boyd, other than way too much Emerson and Thoreau? You done lost,” he took a hand off the steering wheel and pointed at Boyd’s face, “Your American Transcendental enlightenment or whatever the fuck they were reading privileges for a good. Long. Time. Let me tell you!"  
  
Boyd laughed at that, remembered joy welling into his chest as he took another bite, "Well, there was nothin' in the prison library I'd not read, 'cept for harlequin romances with sticky pages, so..."  
  
Raylan gagged on his sandwich, "Oh gawd."

Boyd smiled at him, eyes sparkling and wry, "I washed my hands, though," he promised, smirking, and Raylan glared at him. 

 

"That is  _disgusting_."

 

"Prison is, yes."

 

"Yet you were willing to go for... never mind, Boyd, I know better'n to ask you that."

 

"If you had it to do over, would you still fight Arlo over the money that woman was cheated of?"

 

"I think I see your point," Raylan admitted after a few moments of consideration and road hum - Boyd tilted his head forward, closing his eyes and listening. Back rear wheel-bearing was going.  "I think I see your point, but I do  _not_  agree."

 

"An' that's okay," Boyd said, "You don't have to. It was stupid, and frankly naive.  I got so used to bein' alone that I didn't for a minute think..." beyond the abstract, into the reality, into the inner workings of the machine and what a prison was made to do.

 

Prisons were made to break men.  

 

He'd only been in for a few weeks - perhaps a month and a half - and he had been about to cave, join up with the white supremacists.   _Anything_  to stop... he wrapped an arm low around his ribs, the sandwich suddenly catching in his throat in a lump. He took a sip of the coke, the sugar and fizz settling him a bit, and he went back to looking out the window.

 

"Didn't for a minute think what?"

 

Raylan was too damn good at interrupting his trains of thought, Boyd figured, for as many years as it had been since he'd done it! "I didn't think about what  _other_  people's principles might have been, that ended them up where they were." 

 

"That's always the kicker, ain't it?" Raylan asked, looking at him, "I heard tell you got yourself into the infirmary. You okay?" his eyes flickered over Boyd, and Boyd rolled his eyes, feeling the protest from the aging bruises on the left side of his face - infirmary visit numero uno. 

 

Boyd nodded, "Nothin' worse than you've had." 

 

"...so an emergency room ain't outta the question?"

 

"Raylan," Boyd said, looking at him, eyes narrow and angry, mouth tight and white-lipped, watching Raylan's knuckles on the steering wheel go white.

 

"I'm sorry I asked," Raylan muttered, "Jeez." 

 

"Tell me about..." Boyd leaned against the car door, "What you did with y'self.  Thought about you, often enough. Tried not to, but..."

 

"But you did. Why didn't you call me? Or write? Or somethin'?"

 

"Couldn't drag you back down," Boyd said, "Bring Harlan back to you.  You got out. I didn't. It was that simple."

 

"You got me out," Raylan said, and Boyd growled again, "No, Boyd, we are  _talkin'_  about that, at some point!"

 

"We are not," Boyd said with pained dignity, "It isn't somethin' I wanna talk about."

 

"Why not?"

 

"It just ain't!"

 

"Because it's something good you done? Is that why?" Raylan asked, "You never have talked about the good you done.  You made sure I always knew what you'd done for your daddy!  You  _told_   _me_  you were gonna..." he choked on the memories of Boyd's anger, that day, that day before Boyd had left him the note about desperation, "And never once did you mention that you done raised your little brother-" 

 

"Bowman was usually at Mrs. Nicholson's."

 

"-And kept your daddy's house from fallin' apart-"

 

"Didn't do nothin!"

 

"-Or you got good grades-"

 

"They said I cheated!" 

 

"Shut  _up_ , Boyd Crowder! or you won the goddamn spellin' bee every year, or you got yourself your GED when you weren't even-"

 

"I will NOT shut up!"

 

"-sixteen, yet, and you saved my god-damn life, tho' for  _what purpose_  I swear to God I do not know-"

 

"I couldn't do nothin' else, I was  _scared._ "

 

"- and then you saved it  _again_  down in that hole you coulda left at any time, and then, and then, Boyd... and then you gave me an out.  I been thinkin' on that for years. Years, Boyd."

Boyd looked at Raylan's face - he'd stopped the car again, and Boyd was backed up against the door, feet all but braced against the middle console to get away. "Helen gave you that money," he insisted.

 

"Boyd," Raylan said, his voice soft, coaxing at him, plain as if he was just askin' to go fishin', not for Boyd to come back to him through years and  _years_  of being alone, of silence covered by explosions, of the knowledge of death. "Boyd!"

 

"I can't," Boyd said, and it hurt, "Raylan."

 

"You can't, what?" There it was, that damn mule-headed stubborn sonofabitch, and Boyd laughed to see his friend looking at him from that adult face. 

 

"Oh Raylan," he said, "There ain't no goin' back."  


...fuck. he was crying like a goddamn little kid, the words coming out of him on a sob, expelled from his throat as if driven by a fist. "I can't get loose.  Ever' time I do, it caves back in around me. I shot your daddy, they got us both out - do you remember that? We were in a care home. They was probably real nice people. We left, too stupid to... and then, I got good grades, and worked real hard to get a scholarship, an' my daddy kept me home. Yanked me right back down to the bottom.  Then... I saved up, an' I... couldn't. I saw your face, and if I'd left you there, I'd've never... I coulda left physically, Raylan, but I woulda killed you. You were my only friend, Raylan, did you know that? Y'let me love you. The on'y person that never asked me for nothin'.  You weren't scared of me, even after you saw what I could do to people, and knew I would do it for no good reasons, too.  I couldn't let..."

 

Raylan was listening, his hand reached out and resting in between them, palm up, and Boyd wasn't takin' that, no way,  _no how._

 

"Please," Boyd said, "I don't want to talk 'bout it."

 

Raylan nodded, slowly, "I'm sorry, Boyd."  
  
"Please."  
  
Raylan's hand closed the gap between them and rested on Boyd's knee for an instant- and even a friendly hand was a bit more than Boydparticularly wanted, but he would not hurt Raylan by jerking away, he wouldn't...  
  
"So," Raylan said, "Would you... want to hear about me, if I can't talk about you?"  
  
Boyd looked at him, smiling and hopeful - please, Raylan, please... "I reckon there's not much I'd like to hear more.  You done pretty well, I can tell- you lookin' good."  
  
"Well, thank you, Boyd," Raylan smiled at him, "I am doin' okay. Let's see, what's the last you heard of me?"  
  
"Seein' your tail lights cross the bridge."  
  
"...well damn, son, good thing we got us a long drive!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, I've finished it! If you've enjoyed, please leave a comment! This has been one of my hardest stories to write, in terms of characters and characterization.


End file.
